Vapor Rub
by Gecko Osco
Summary: England is sick and America is attentive...England does not know what to make of it. Day 6 for the USUK Valentine's week challenge: To Be Continued!: Continuation of the comic strip 'England Catches a Cold.' USUK of course.


Title: Vapor Rub  
Genre: humor/romance  
Pairing: USUK  
Rating: PG-16  
Warnings: spoilers for comic, some naughtiness ^_^  
Summary:Done for the USUK Valentine's week challenge on Livejournal: To Be Continued!: Continuation of the comic strip 'England Catches a Cold.' England is sick and America is attentive...England does not know what to make of it.  
Note: I had fun with this one, I like doing hurt/comfort every now and then without too much angst! Enjoy and reviews are love!

_**Vapor Rub  
**_

"Did you really put a hamburger on my head in an effort to 'cure' me?" England stared at America as if he had either grown another head or had developed another color to his skin. Was the bloody idiot really_ that _daft?

The tall nation was standing, heroically posed of course, in the doorway to his bedroom, big smile and hands on his hips, looking devastatingly handsome per usual. England felt a flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck at his own haggard appearance: too big pajamas that were a bit ratty due to use, runny and red nose, even paler skin, a distinct nasal sound to his voice, afghan blanket draped around his shoulders. His hair was likely a bloody mess as well…and how did America even get in his house in the first place? Come to think of it, how had France, the bastard, get in? He really needed to invest in sturdier locks, England thought absentmindedly; it was hard to concentrate properly with his head all foggy and America standing so close and smelling so…well, England was loathe to admit he smelled wonderful, but there it was. Like sunshine or summer or something equally ridiculous.

"Of course I did! And you look terrible, old man, you should probably sit down or somethin'…not that I'd know, too awesome to get sick after all!"

If England had been feeling better, he probably would have responded with something quite scathing, something that would normally inspire grown men to cry, but he was feeling miserable so all he could was roll his eyes and head out of his room. He sniffled and shuffled down the stairs to his kitchen…what he needed was a nice cup of tea, Earl Grey good and hot. Hopefully, America would become bored with his lack of response (or simply because he had the attention span of a cockroach) and would leave if he was not entertained…England was not up to dealing with him and all the baggage that cropped up when he came around.

England, you see, was terribly in love with the utter moron. It was a bleeding nuisance really, making England feel awkward and hot whenever America was near, making him more sensitive to insults from him, making him an easier target for France and his ruddy commentary. Making his heart twist painfully…because unrequited love was no picnic and made most of the wars England had been through seem like a blooming walk in the park. Gods, maybe this was why Spain was such a prat all the time, dealing with Romano for so long. And honestly...it was _America_ for God's sake; he drove everyone mad and they certainly didn't love him! Sodding heartache-inducing prat.

England fought off a dizzy spell while fixing his tea, steadying himself on the counter as he tried to pour the tea from the kettle. It was warm still, though it had been made some time ago, and drank it straight, not really up for trying to fish out his cream and milk at the moment. He coughed roughly, leaving his throat with an uncomfortable raw and burning feeling afterwards, and made his way to his kitchen table, sitting down ungainly and wrapping the blanket tighter around him. He coughed again and closed his eyes, hoping that one of the fairies, he didn't trust Periwinkle but there was a good chance that Spider could be counted on, brought back that medicine they had promised soon.

"Wow, England, you really don't look good…"

England looked up and glared blearily at America. The wanker had followed him downstairs, dammit. "Thank you for stating the obvious, America. I can sleep at peace knowing that _you_ think I look like utter shit!" England mourned that his retort lacked almost all of its usual bite.

America frowned and walked up to England, a determined expression on his face. England was about to tell him to just bugger off already, but he felt large, calloused hands cup his chin and tilt his face up to look straight into ocean blue eyes. England felt his breath hitch…which of course triggered another round of coughing, prompting the warm hands to back away. After he was finished, he took an unsteady breath and took another sip of his lukewarm tea, wishing the liquid eased the pain in his throat a bit more than it did. Christ, he felt wretched…he hated germs, absolutely-fucking-loathed them.

He was so wrapped up in his own misery, he didn't notice how America was debating with himself, visibly weighing out pros and cons with his hands in an imitation of a scale, and came to a decision, complete with smile and thumbs up to himself. Arthur yelped when he was hoisted out of the kitchen chair by America's stronger-than-bloody normal arms, the change in equilibrium making his head pound and he glared heatedly at the smiling face that was now entirely too close for Arthur's well-being…

"America, you twat, put me down this instant!"

"Nope! It's my duty as your hero to make sure you get better now! And first step is getting you back in bed, can't have you falling asleep down here."

England stared at America's face, stared at how soft his smile was, and how bright his eyes looked, and wondered if he could pass off the heat in his face and the tingles on his skin as a result of the fever. America nodded, adjusted England in his arms and marched straight upstairs; England really didn't have much of a choice, he had to wrap his arms around America's neck. It was to keep from bouncing ungainly, that's all...so was resting his head against America's shoulder. He could pass off all of this later as a result of being too addled from sickness; it was all right just this once.

America slid into England's bedroom, bouncing the door shut after him with his hip, and set England down, blanket and all, on his bed. England stared after him as the younger nation bustled about the room, closing blinds and turning up the heat, grabbing some blankets out of a cabinet. England wondered how he knew where that cabinet even was for a moment before America sat down on the edge of the bed with the piles of blankets, smiling warmly, but his eyes holding a hint of worry. He glanced down at all the blankets he was holding and smiled sheepishly, laughing softly and making England's heart beat faster.

"Might be a little overkill, uh? Still, gotta stay warm, sweat out the fever and stuff."

"You-you better put all those back…don't need to clean up after you once I'm well."

"Will do. You should sleep, it'll help."

America tucked, actually _tucked_ England in under the blankets (which was a tad warm but England was quite comfortable now…maybe he should have used a few more blankets earlier when he had been trying to sleep…). And then, then he ran a hand through his somewhat damp hair, smoothing it away from England's face, fingers trailing across the skin of his cheek as he pulled away. It was too much, did America not even know what he was doing?! Still, England had no chance to stammer as the warmth, comfort, and sense of security all cocooned around him, dragging his sickness-weakened body back into sleep.

All he had a chance to ask was, "Why are you doing this?"

And, while he had started to drift under, he could still hear America's words before he faded away. "Aw, come on Iggy! Isn't it obvious?"

**

England woke up feeling almost uncomfortable warm. He blinked sleepily from underneath the piles of blankets, wondering for a moment how he'd gotten there covered by a ridiculous number of blankets, but then his eyes focused on the outline of a brown bomber jacket. Oh yes, that's right, he had been carried up the stairs and tucked into bed by a very warm and attentive America…brilliant. England coughed hard but sat up anyway; his mind felt much more alert than it had in days, not quite lost of all its fogginess but much sharper than before his nap. His eyes went back to the jacket, draped so innocuously across the back of a reading chair that it looked as if it belonged there; England sneezed and pushed the blankets off, determined not to think about the jacket.

He had every intention of making it downstairs; however, he only made it as far as the door because when he opened it, there was America, looking somewhat surprised, carrying what looked like a bowl of soup. Ok, it plainly was a bowl of soup, but the very fact that _America_ was carrying up _soup_ for England, presumably, was what confounded him. He must have looked confused because the surprise melted away from America's face and then he was laughing, which England did not appreciate. He glared up, having every intention of letting America know he could kindly go fuck himself and get out of his house (he knew this was probably not the appropriate response but it wasn't like America would really listen to his threats anyway…it's like he had selective hearing whenever England started insulting him…), but America's hand touched the small of his back and ushered him back inside, freezing up all the harsh words in his mouth.

And he frankly couldn't be expected to come up with a decent insult anyway when America was so close, so caring, and still smelled so good. England was fairly certain he was going completely bonkers…oh bugger it, fevers did odd things to people, even nations. He sneezed loudly a few times in succession as America pushed him back down in the bed, grabbing the reading chair that had his jacket draped over it next to the bed and sitting. Homemade chicken soup it looked like…oh bloody hell. England tried very hard to not let his quickened heart beat show in shaking, nervous and dare he say it, happy, hands as he took the soup from America's proffered hands.

"Probably not the best, but it's Mattie's recipe and whatever I make will be way better for you than anything _you_ try to make anyway." England stared at America's shy and eager expression before he lowered his eyes back to the hot, fragrant soup. He didn't even mind the insult to his cooking that much.

"Th-thank you, America. You didn't have to do all this."

America rolled his eyes but his smile turned more playful, more confident. "Hello, hero here! Of course I did!" He laughed and seemed content to watch England eat, which made the older nation a bit nervous to tell the truth (what if he spilled soup…oh bollocks that would just be perfect, wouldn't it?). He made sure to settle back against the pillows so he was comfortable and take small, neat sips of soup from the spoon. It was quite good and he offered America small smile to show it; it actually felt great on his raw throat…he hadn't eaten much of late because swallowing had left his throat feeling even worse but this helped and filled his stomach.

America took the bowl when he was finished and disappeared, calling out that he'd be back after he washed the bowl…which left England gaping. Just a little and he snapped his mouth closed quickly but still…America _willing_ washing dishes. England shook his head and leaned back, wrapping blankets around him again, not thinking about the warm flutter in his stomach not related to soup, the pleased and caring smile on America's face and definitely not what all of America's actions could possibly mean. It was-it didn't mean anything. It couldn't, things just did not happen like that in England's life, they just didn't and it wouldn't do to start hoping otherwise.

America came bounding back in, carrying a small jar in his hand…but what got England was the very slight blush around his ears. Odd that...America was not easily flustered and England felt something like expectation and maybe even curioisty bloom in his chest. England sat up, sure he looked an absolute wreck, what with not having showered in two days now and having that nice pallor that always accompanied fevers, still in his ratty, too-big pajamas, but it probably didn't matter anymore at this point. He looked at America in silent question, his eyebrows (which were even bushier after sleep so that was just peachy) raised but otherwise didn't speak.

"It's, uh, it's vapor rub. You know, Vicks? You sound really congested and this is supposed to help…Mattie told me it would be good for you and help you breathe a little easier."

England felt somewhat let down for some reason…vapor rub, of course, what had he expected? America was just trying to make him feel better from the cold; honestly, England was an utter fool. He nodded in thanks and went to hold out his hand, knowing that it probably would help to break up the copious amount of shit clogging up his sinuses at the moment. However, much to his, equal parts, horror and happiness America did not give him the jar. No, no…instead he unscrewed the lid and leaned in close, giving England a shy grin at the wide eyes the slim nation was giving the younger practically on top of him.

"Wh-what the hell are you—"

"It'll be a lot easier to do this if you take off that shirt, Iggy." America that…that utter bastard had the audacity to look pleased with himself. England scooted back until his back hit the headboard, a deep, angry frown on his face and a furious blush covering his pale skin.

"Get away from me, you pervert!" England hated how nasally he sounded…it's didn't hold any threat at all. And how much he actually didn't really want America, pervert or not, to go away. America didn't waver, but his grin slipped into something less playful and more serious, holding up his hands and the Vicks in gentle surrender.

"Hey, hey, I promise to only provide medical aid, no touchy touchy! Come on, England, you could do with a little relaxation."

England wavered, his head and heart both, technically wanting the same thing, but he was still so very unsure as to the why of all this. Unrequited love was hell but the thought, the hope, that maybe it wasn't unrequited was plain terrifying…England breathed as deeply as his congestion allowed, hand clutching his shirt to him tightly, scrutinizing America for anything that could convince him to kick him off the bed and out of the house. Sadly, he found nothing, so his hand let go and he looked down, worrying his bottom lip before he, very slowly and hesitantly, took off the shirt.

America scooped a healthy dollop of the rub and rubbed it between his hands before he began, very slowly, rubbing it onto England's bare torso in gentle circular motions. England breath a deep, calming breath and closed his eyes; he could himself trembling and tried to quell it, tried to concentrate on something…like how about Doctor Who? Yes, prime topic there…England wondered if the Doctor ever ran into himself with all that jumping around through time. It would only make sense…or maybe the Tardis (God, England would kill for one of those) had an alarm of some sort that would go off if he was going to run into himself…but would the Doctor really pay attention to something as trivial as an alarm? And why…why were America's fingers splayed out over his stomach and touched the side of his face?

"What are you doing?" England's voice was shaking and he didn't open his eyes.

"Uh…I guess I'm trying to tell you something…but it's obviously not working so…I'll try this."

And then, then lips were on his own, America's to be specific. America's lips on England's, kissing him softly. Kissing England. Oh bloody hell…this was happening and it wasn't a dream or very vivid hallucination. And wow, this was the first time England had ever felt light-headed from kissing…though perhaps the fever and very strong scent of eucalyptus had something to do with that. England, never one to just let things happen to his person, brought his hands up around America's neck and back, digging into his golden hair and stroking down his back, and kissed back with all the power he could muster back.

America's lips left his reluctantly after more than a few minutes of heated kissing and England couldn't help it, his eyes opened to stare straight into America's. His tongue darted out to lick his chapped lips nervously, looking up with apprehensive eyes. "So-so what was that supposed to tell me?"

"That I kinda love you."

America bit his lip and laughed weakly at the shocked and disbelieving look on England's face, sitting off England completely but still on the bed and close to him, running a hand through his hair. "Jeez, I told Matt this wasn't going to work…he was all like, 'England's not feeling well, it'd be nice if he had someone to help him, someone who could confess his undying love…blah blah blah!' And then stupid France was here, and I hope you know I saved you from getting molested by him with that hamburger trick by the way so no more hatred for my burgers…but then you looked so-so adorable all sick and stuff and I…man, mind if you just forget the last five minutes or so?"

England sat up, his green eyes sharp and intense, and placed his hand on America's shoulder, turning him back to face him. "That's why you did all that, the hamburger and the blankets and the soup..? Because you love me?"

"Um, yeah…"

England smiled, truly smiled and yanked America's lips back to his, kissing him with every ounce of love, passion, hurt, and longing he'd kept in for so long; every memory, every hatred, every bit of himself that felt something, anything at all, for the younger nation. Which was quite a lot, mind you. And America responded, falling back with England, his arms wrapped around him as if he, England, the skinny, sick and red-nosed nation with abnormally large eyebrows and green eyes, was the most precious thing in the world. Telling him with every nip, every gasp, every time his grip tightened how much he really loved England, because he was all those faulty things and he thought those were beautiful. England breathed deep and swore to himself that as wonderful as all this was he was absolutely not crying so belt up.

England would have really liked to continue on to more than kissing, but to be frank, he was still sick and that just was plain unhygienic so he pulled away and tucked his head into America's neck. America smiled into his hair and stroked his back up and down.

"I guess that answers my question…" America laughed softly. "So, do ya think I can stay for awhile longer…you're still pretty sick…please, Iggy?"

England breathed deep, smelling sunshine, summer, and eucalyptus and America. "Of course you idiot."

Maybe getting sick wasn't so bad after all.

_Finis_


End file.
